


For Certain Values of Loss

by abluemountainashtardis



Series: For Certain [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M, Obsession, Wild Hunt (Teen Wolf)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-08 03:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20299093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abluemountainashtardis/pseuds/abluemountainashtardis
Summary: The idea of leaving before getting an answer is preposterous. The promise he gave Stiles has become more than a quaint platitude – it’s become his only reason for existence. There is no one in this world who knows him. Who knows him. And there never will be again.Stiles has become a necessity, an obsession almost. Peter won’t let him go quietly into the night.





	For Certain Values of Loss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/gifts).
  * Inspired by [For Certain Values of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8687014) by [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter). 

> Another gift to the exceptionally talented DiscontentedWinter - who's fic For Certain Values of Love has literally ruined my life.
> 
> You should absolutely read that first. You can read either of my gifts in either order. 
> 
> So, to the prequel.

**December**

He nearly leapt off the back of the horse. He nearly turned and ran. Nearly.

Instead he burned. Every part of him was set alight in pain, worse than what he remembered – clearer, sharper, more encompassing than the fire that ravaged half his body and the smoke that curled into his lungs sending him closer to death. He heaved in a breath, pain over coming him, staring up at the trees. He’s done this before. Survived before. Survived by -

**January**

**+**

**February**

The world was white, clean, and unerringly familiar. A hospital ward.

He sat upright, relief washing through him as his body moved. He wasn’t trapped. Sitting endlessly, listlessly in pain like before. He hadn’t realised his hands had sprouted claws until a well known face appeared beside him.

“Sir, I need you to calm down. You’re in Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. You’re safe. I’m Nurse McCall. Can you tell me your name?”

Peter stared at her wild eyed. She stood there, calm, in blue scrubs, her tangled curls pinned up, happy little widows feet peeking at the edges of her eyes. Melissa McCall.

“Sir, you need to calm down,” she said again, staring pointedly then nodding down at his hands. “Can you control yourself?”

Peter retracted his claws then wheezed a cough.

“Alright, lie back and I’ll get you some water.”

Peter’s eyes tracked her as she turned her back to get the water. Melissa McCall never would have turned her back to him – she would have demanded answers dry throat or no. Imposter? No. She smelled right, moved right.

“Here we are, now I’ll need you to answer a few questions. Your name?”

Melissa looked expectantly at him, a gentle smile on her face. Peter examined her, spotting a wedding ring on her finger.

“You’re married?” he asked.

She frowned slightly before nodding. “Afraid so, handsome. You?”

“No… How long?”

“Four years or so. Can you tell me your age?”

“Thirty…” Peter narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry, what’s the date? The year?”

Melissa stared at him shrewdly.

“You don’t know the year?”

“Sorry, no,” he said. He heard a shuffle somewhere to his left and Melissa turned slightly as her son appeared from around a curtain. Peter should have noticed him. Well, he’s allowed some slack.

“He’s telling the truth, mom,” Scott said quietly. “Hello,” he said turning to Peter. “I’m Scott McCall, I’m an alpha.”

Peter stared at Scott for a moment then glanced at Melissa. “How am I?”

“I’ll go find a doctor to talk to you but, in short, we found you suffering from burns out in the preserve – already healing – but when you wouldn’t wake we transferred you here. That was six weeks ago.”

Peter inhaled sharply.

_ **Stiles.** _

“So I’m… fine?”

“Except for not knowing the date. Or your name?”

“My name...” Peter paused, aware of Scott now. “Has been forgotten yes, but am I physically fit?”

“I’ll have the doctor see you.”

+

Peter snuck out of the hospital before any social services or law enforcement showed up. His wallet had been fried, most of the things he was wearing were useless, and his shoes were melted in places. No ID. No cards. No cash. He wasn’t certain what happened to John Doe in the system and he didn’t feel like finding out.

Ten months.

He’s been gone ten months.

He wasn’t sure how long it’d been for Stiles – seven months maybe – but now he has to find a way to pull him back, and not burn him alive.

+

He wandered for a few days, sniffing out the differences in this brand new world – and it is brand new. He’s been erased. His prominent acts been rewritten. His property lies barren. He hunkered down in the vault in front of bonds that were never taken because the deadpool never happened because Meredith never heard his ravings because he never burned because he never existed.

How has the world rewritten these events? What happened in their place? Has there been a loophole somewhere, an event missed, a life changed that meant he can pull Stiles back?

**March**

It wasn’t a one time deal, this erasure thing.

He ordered a coffee in Shawn Bean and by the time his order arrived his name has disappeared from the side of the cup.

He stood in the middle of a car sales room and not a single salesperson approached him.

The young woman who came to care for his elderly next door neighbour always introduced herself to him – and yet the old neighbour herself seemed to remember him fine. Agatha. He joined her for tea and biscuits on Wednesdays. On good days they talked about books and tv shows, sometimes they baked. On bad days Peter was Agatha’s husband, on those days he sat and held her hand, draining any pain away as she spiraled down the same thought processes.

He adored Agatha. She remembered him when she could, called him _Peter_ and it echoed down to his bones that _yes_ his inner being cried _I am Peter._ _I am here._

_I exist._

+

Peter took to petty vandalism. It made him feel secure knowing he has changed something and it stayed changed. People see it. Remember it.

+

He thought about going to Deaton. Sometimes he stood outside and watched the Veterinary Clinic. He saw Allison Argent. His hairs stood on end. The Hunt’s power is incredible. To outmatch it he’ll need just as much power. Something old. Something -

Something ancient.

+

He waited for the full moon, the worm moon. Thought of the way Lydia called him, called to him, and knows she’s part of the answer somehow. Lydia is Stiles’ tether to this world. Lydia can call him back. She’d done it before.

It was dangerous to come to the Nemeton with no offering in hand, but the constant never ending beat in his head sang to him  _bring him back bring him back bring him back._

It was cool, but Peter still removed his shoes and shirt before he entered the clearing which held the massive trunk. He sunk his toes into the soil and against the roots in the earth. He stood in front of the stump and placed his hands on the bark.

“The time has come, to talk of many things,” Peter murmured. “You know me,” he said crouching down. “I have killed for you before. I killed a usurper, who wanted your power for herself,” he said. “I killed my niece, an alpha, right over your roots.”

Peter paused, waiting to see if his words made something – anything – react. Nothing. Peter sighed.

“I haven’t come for myself though. I’ve come because you are old. The older something is the harder it is to alter their memories. The deeper into the earth something is, the less power the Wild Hunt has over it. Over you.”

Leaves rustled around him, Peter leaned in closer.

“One of your guardians is missing from this earth. The one who took away the nogitsune – that terrible rot in your roots – the one who heard you calling the night I killed my niece, even if he didn’t know it. He was taken.”

Peter heaved in air, emotions making his voice suddenly thick.

“Bring him back.”

-

Peter sat out under the light of the worm moon – when he felt  the most powerful,  the most alive – and waited. For something. For anything.

-

The idea of leaving before getting an answer is preposterous. The promise he gave Stiles has become more than a quaint platitude – it’s become his only reason for existence. There is no one in this world who  _knows _ him. Who knows  _him._ And there never will be again.

Stiles has become a necessity, an obsession almost. Peter won’t let him go quietly into the night.

-

Dawn slowly trickled in through the trees, bathing the nemeton in red. Struck with sudden inspiration Peter raked his nails across his palm and slammed it to the bark. 

“_Whatever it takes, we bring him back_,” Peter snarled.

The earth shook, roots moved up and grasped his wrist. This is what is needed whispered a voice in his mind. A half dead nemeton can only do so much – if you want the power to bring him back, you must give blood.

Blood for power.

**April**

This new power of being forgotten has interesting repercussions. People sometimes walked into him if he stood still on a busy street – as if they didn’t see him. He can never seem to have a proper conversation with anyone – he’d attempted in his local library, various coffee shops – sometimes the landlord wandered into the flat expecting it to be empty.

He ripped up benches in the middle of high streets, painted walls with graffiti – whatever topic came to mind –  drove cars into the sides of buildings.

Agatha wrote down the important parts of their conversations now, in order to ask him specific questions later, and as much as it broke his heart she has to do it she’s still the only person he can list as an emergency contact.

+

Malia had a part time job at some garden centre. Peter pushed his luck; he kept to the water features to soften his scent and spie d on her occasionally. She smelt frustrated, sad, untamed. He very nearly intervened when a man made a pass at her, but she held her own and dropped a bag of gravel on him without swiping a claw across his face.

He saw the Sheriff pick her up from work every so often, amongst the plethora of pack – but never  _Tate._ He resisted looking into it though. If he started he wouldn’t stop. So he doesn’t start.

Instead he planned.

The Darach didn’t seem to wait for any particular phase of the moon from what he could gather. She was trying to obtain for power for herself, picking certain abilities she wanted. He was trying to give power to the Nemeton, to give control.

He may be biased, but he always found werewolves to be the most powerful of predators.

+

The thing about Deucalion was that he had a point. A stupid point, but a point nonetheless. An alpha creating a werewolf gives over a spark of power. The newly bitten body ignites that spark, grows it into an inferno of power, into a werewolf. The alpha that gives that spark takes it back, larger than it was before, and boom the  alpha spark has grown. A self perpetuating power source.

It did barbaric things to the spark inside the Alpha, to hold so many betrayed souls. He wasn’t even an alpha. He tabled that idea.

+

The nemeton is a beacon.

Maybe all he has to do is wait.

+

It was the waxing moon and he hid in the shadows of the trees as the lumbering footsteps approached. A drunk teen of some kind. He walloped them on the back of the head and saw the thin teeth grow. Wendigo. A carnivorous beast. He slit their throat and strangled them. The blood e e ked out over the nemeton and he could almost hear the glugging as she devoured the sacrifice. Peter cooed: she  wa s starving, the poor thing.

+

On the full moon he d id n't risk the preserve, instead he headed to the Bank where Deaton didn't die and waited there. A crossroads of power. The creature was more beast than man, and Peter had to bleach the blood off the marble floor, but he could feel the currents rise around him: an alternate altar would suffice. Now he just needed to find where those altars were.

+

In the dark he tried to  remember what Stiles looked like. Were his eyes really amber, or simply brown? Was he covered in freckles, or only one or two prominent moles? How tall was he – taller than him for sure. He was skinny – such a skinny kid but in the train station he had muscle to him, how defined was he? What would his flesh feel like underneath his fingers? How peaked was his cupid’s bow, how pink his lips? Did he always lick his lips like that or ha d Peter imagined it? Had he imagined the edge of ruthlessness, the deep cutting wit? What would he look like wearing nothing but the moonlight? Angelic? Human? Demonic?

+

On the waning moon Peter prepared better. The trunk of his car would be very suspicious should law enforcement choose to search it. It was an old woman this time. She turned when she heard Peter and snarled. Peter froze for a moment, startled by the resemblance to Agatha, but swiftly removed her life when she spat poison at him. The first three were complete. The nemeton lapped gently at his feet. A step closer to Stiles.

+

He watched the Argent girl sometimes. The way she filled out the group so they didn’t miss Stiles. The way she distracted Scott, embraced Lydia, balanced Malia, taught Hayden: and he wondered. Did she know she's dead? Was she distracting them consciously or instinctively?

Sometimes when he knew he was the only one who could see her, when she was all alone, she flickered, like a faded tv, and her face was empty.

**May**

He waited at the nemeton again. The next three. He could feel the summons in his bones, this was where she wanted him to be. He was sat listening to the darkness when he heard it, a small wailing. As it got closer Peter fortified his heart till it grew cold and dark. The child had dirty blonde hair and a snotty nose. When Peter cracked it's neck their skin turned to paper, ash, like they were a phantom, and Peter  wa s overwhelmingly relieved. The nemeto n soaked up no blood, but feasted  instead  on his devotion.

+

There was a graduation. Peter sat in the back row and stared as much as he liked – it’s not like anyone will remember afterwards. He tried desperately to think if someone other than Stiles was missing from the year.

He doesn't know.

He saw the Sheriff s a t proudly next to Melissa, cheering as Scott bashfully ma de his way across the podium. He cheered just as loudly for Malia. 

At least she had a good man in her life there.

Lydia looked him square in the eye during her  Valedictorian speech, Peter's heart seized, wishing, praying, for something, a reaction, a twitch, anything...

Nothing.

+

He stole traffic signs, punctured tires, rearranged manakins in shop windows into provocative positions: anything that might be noticed.

+

He spent three days tracking a bear; bringing down it's hulk took near all his strength but he could feel the nemeton's approval thrum across the forest and her delight at his offering.

+

The barista at Shawn Bean remembered his name today, the ink staining the side of the styrofoam cup in a permanence he ha d n't felt since before Eichen House. It felt like he had solid ground beneath his feet. It felt like he was gaining ground.

If the nemeton could make him a real boy, she could do the same for Stiles.

+

Agatha died on a sunny day in the park where her husband Hubert had taken her on their first date. Peter's heart swelled and burst, and the nemeton d r ank it up like sweet honeyed wine. Peter held her hand until it lost it's warmth then phoned for the ambulance himself. He paid for the funeral, he informed the nice young woman who cared for her, he packed up her apartment, and then the sweet old lady with no family or fortune to speak of  wa s forgotten.

By all bar Peter.

**June**

He could smell his prey this time. The nemeton led him early in order to prepare. This one is another werewolf, a clever foe, a powerful opponent, a worthy sacrifice.

He used Hunter's tactics. Lights and noises and smells and poison. Peter reached down and ripped the heart from him, feeling the power of alpha run through him then out just as quickly. The nemeton  wa s a hungry and exacting Mistress. There  were no leftovers.

Well, maybe one day.

+

He heard the plans the pack ma d e. Scott  was going to community college to get his biology grades up  and get to vet school . Malia  was taking up more part time jobs. Argent and the Sheriff  had teamed up to find the serial killer  leaving bloody bodies all over the wood - they suspected it could be a hunter. Allison took on more of the family business. No sign or talk of any Hales. Life churned on.

What would Stiles do with his life after he returned?

+

Peter managed to set up a credit card in his real name and it didn't disappear the next day.

A woman flirted with him and left him his number.

Lydia walked by him on the street and didn't even glance in his direction.

It burned cold and hot inside his stomach. He exists. He  _exists._

But he is still not remembered.

+

This werewolf was wild and reckless. An omega who practically walked into his claws, Peter felt disdain for the wretch, letting themselves go so far into the wolf.

He knew he was a hypocrite, but he still felt a  deep  sense of satisfaction at killing this one.

+

Peter howled at the moon. This was taking too long. What would Stiles be when he came through? Mindlessly waiting for a train that never arrived ate away at your brain - Peter knew, knew he'd been eaten away at but by how much he can't tell. Would Stiles burn the way he had? Would Stiles even bar e to look at him after all the blood he bathed in to save him? 

Would Stiles even want him in his life the way he’s begun to crave Stiles?

+

The last werewolf.

Peter felt it build up in his gut, felt a sense of fear and certainty as two wolves growled from behind. They did everything together. Why not died together.

**June**

This he had to plan out carefully.

There was only a short amount of time before she left for college, and he c ouldn 't afford for anyone to notice she  wa s missing.

He waited until a day Malia was working, Scott was at college, and her mother was visiting her sister in Portland. He took her at 0930 in the morning.

Not all rituals need be done in the dark.

He took her to the nemeton, laid her out, and waited. She froze when she opened her eyes, noticing first where she was then him.

“Who are you?”

“I'm the one who has been restoring the nemeton.”

He could see her shift, getting ready to scream.

“I apologise for the rude behaviour but I require your help. It'll only take twenty minutes of your time, then I will leave you be,” he said as evenly as possible. “I'll even give you a lift back home if you like.”

Lydia stilled.

“Excuse me?”

“I require a Banshee scream. Your scream.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I have everything prepared, and much the same way you called back Mason, I need you to call back my Stiles.”

“What's a Stiles?”

Peter smiled at her patiently. “I can offer financial compensation if that helps?”

Lydia crossed her legs and thought.

“I want my phone.”

“I left your phone at your house. You may of course, borrow mine. Perhaps tell someone to call you in an hour and if you're not there to send out a search party?”

Lydia picked a leaf off her jacket. “How reasonable of you.”

Peter smiled. “I'm very reasonable. Just not entirely sane.”

Lydia's hand only shook slightly as she took the offered phone.

“Scott? I'm fine for now, but if i don't call you in one hour you need to find me, okay? With backup. There's a man here who needs a favour. I think he’s a werewolf.” Lydia paused. “We're at -”

Peter lifted a hand and Lydia stopped short.

“We’re in the preserve. One hour, okay?” Lydia pleaded. Scott’s reply was rushed, formless, jumping to conclusions. It shouldn’t take long for him to try and find Lydia, nor should it take long to complete this ritual. Peter removed the phone from her hand and gave her a sealed can of Pepsi, she frowned but took it anyway, cracking it open and drinking it in one gulp.

“Now I need you to focus. The nemeton is singing to you, can you hear her?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “I don't usually hear singing trees.”

“You don't usually listen,” Peter replied in the same dry tone. “There's something missing, in regards to you, to your power, your connection to the nemeton - like a tether flapping wildly in the wind.”

Lydia's face grew pale, she leaned away slightly. “Why say that?”

“I need you to dig for that, I need you to scream to that. Sharp enough to pierce a veil between worlds.”

“What am I calling to?” Lydia whispered.

Peter leaned in. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Who named their kid Stiles?”

“It's a chosen name. Now _focus_.”

He felt the words reverberate through him into her, that odd silent but always present connection they'd created between their minds. He felt her drop down into her banshee side, felt her search for the nemeton and the tether she held between it and Stiles.

“Pull, Lydia. **Scream.**”

-

It was a cold gnawing aching emptiness, it was the taste of defeat, bitter and nauseating, and an endless expanse of panic.

That was  what  life  was  without Stiles.

After fifty minutes of sitting with Lydia he walked her back to the road, to the local McDonald’s and phoned her a taxi, shoving a grand in her hand as he exit ed . She may not even remember him by the time the taxi arrived. She had already forgotten what he’d asked her to do when the nemeton left her sight. Forgotten Stiles.

It didn’t work  _and it should have. _ So what d id he do now?

-

He dream t in screams.

A mole dotted face with duct tape on and a raised eyebrow. 

“_What am I calling to?” Lydia whispered._

A void. Black endless pit abyss.

_Peter leaned in. “Stiles Stilinski.”_

A light at the end, a tunnel, a train, a fire.

“_Who named their kid Stiles?”_

A roar, an alpha to pack, howling. 

“_It's a chosen name. Now focus.”_

**July**

Lydia is still the key. He knew it. He  _knew_ it.

But he’s missed something.

Two things.

**August**

Never before has he devoted so much time and effort into one person.

He knew it was an obsession, knew it could not be healthy by this point, but also by this point he cared very little.

He  ha s retrieved everything he c ould find about Stiles.

He’s even retrieved an old blue jeep. The jeep was in bad repair, won’t start – can’t start. No one has worked on it in ten years. Any updates that Stiles may have put into the thing have vanished.

Stiles was an old family moniker. John’s brother had gone by it before his death, and his father. The father was an interesting source, but in the end worthless. He found an old newspaper with Stiles’ picture in it. A group of ten year olds playing baseball. His name was listed as Micky.

So far nothing more revealing.

**September**

It was a frozen  glacier in his heart that burned. An endless yawning gaping pit that never ceased to terrify him. It was the end of his very existence.

That was  what  life  was  without Stiles.

+

He had taken up drinking. Drinking and killing.

He was getting better at both every day.

+

He took trips to specialists. He raided every library, tomb, crypt, cave he could find, gathered information and t ook it back to the family vault. He killed anything that crossed his path.

Didn’t matter where he was, she heard his offerings, and took and took and took.

**October**

It was an endless mantra, a promise, a hope, a prophecy unfulfilled, recited every night, thought of at every moment when someone failed to notice him at the till, ran into the back of his car, asked for his name again.

That was  what  life  was  without Stiles.

+

It was the month where the veil between their worlds was the thinnest. He strode around the town in full shift,  eyes bleeding  **red.**

He frightened no one.

**November**

It was a dream. Constant dream. Of a family. Of deep meaningful conversations. Of people who  _kn_ _e_ _w _ him. It was a burning desire for… for  _love._

It was a reality where his dry cleaning went missing. Where he fucked  people  in the back alley of clubs who say someone else’s name. Where he waited for the only thing that kn ew him to guide him to his next murder victim.

That was  what  life  was  without Stiles.

+

“They're going missing, you know!”

Peter's ear tuned into the uproar at the bar slightly, fingertips  gouging  the  sticky  table top.

“Poor fucking kids - and no one notices! No one knows. They can't - hick - can't see like I do…”

Peter's eyes narrowed in on the drunk. He recognised him.

“Bobby?” The bartender leaned over and smacked his arm. “You drive here?”

“I'm not crazy.”

“Did you drive here?”

“They just vanished right off the team, you know. Thought we were gonna win state. Then Bilinski goes poof and the whole thing goes switcharoo.”

Peter stood bolt upright, half way across the  bar before he could stop himself.

“Bobby, let me take you home.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can think and suddenly he's supporting  the Coach’s weight as they walk ed down the darkened houses  of Beacon Hills.

“How long have you taught as Beacon Hills High?”

“Was Coach before that,” Bobby slurred. “I was professional you know. Before the…”

Peter hummed. “Before?”

“Got in a fight. Fell down some stairs and wham - “ Bobby hiccuped. “Took years of therapy to get walking again.”

Something lit up in Peter's head. “Brain injury.”

“Sure, laugh it up big guy. I'm retarded.”

_You're protected,_ is what Peter thought.

+

Bobby passed out on his couch and Peter raided the man's house. He searched through the laptops, the filing cabinets, the attic, everywhere there was a smidgen of teaching work - nothing. No hint of his Stiles. He turned to the man on the couch and threw water on his face.

“Tell me about Bilinski.”

“Kid can't sit still. What's… who are you?”

“What's the kid's first name?” Peter demanded.

“Can't remember. Stupid kid. You know he once wrote me an essay on the history of the male circumcision. Had to fail him. But I had the dumb thing framed and put in my office.”

Peter left.

The thing is you can't forget something that's already forgotten. The Coach had forgotten Stiles real name, so the fake name wasn't erased, and if  C oach believed that was Bilinskis’ essay on the wall then maybe -

Just maybe.

Please maybe.

**December**

It was a burning, a yearning, a drive, a purpose, for each day. It was a vow, a  benediction , a religion. It was fire in his veins, never resting, always wanting, consuming,  molten.

That was  what  life  was  without Stiles.

+

He had to wait.

The gall, the sheer audacity.

He had to wait. One more month. Until the Wolf Moon, until the January moon.

Because fucking Scott McCall decided to spend the December moon at college.

+

Peter guarded Lydia and Scott. They never noticed – how could they – but he was anxious that something would go wrong at the last second, the last hurdle. He couldn’t afford it.

Stiles couldn’t afford it.

**January**

It was energy, anticipation, fear.

That was what life was without Stiles.

+

Peter felt no need to abduct his necessary accomplices  this time . He  simply sat on the nemeton thirty minutes before sunset, and soon both Lydia and McCall arrived.

“Who are you?”

“Do you not remember me?” Peter asked, flicking his eyes between them. Scott glanced at Lydia. She frowned.

“Should we?”

Peter felt a roar inside of him desperate,  howling, furious, hurt , but smiled sadly instead. “Yes. You really should. Either way it does not matter. You do not need to  be able remember to  be able to  help.”

“Help?” Scott asked.

Always a bleeding heart that one.

“Yes, McCall. I need your help. To right a wrong. I need a banshee’s scream, and an alpha’s roar.”

Much like the last time Stiles was trapped in a limbo, he would need his tether and his alpha to find and call him home.

“There’s ten grand on the nemeton. You can take it either way.”

In the end it’s not that difficult to convince them.

Lydia screamed Mieczyslaw Stilinski while Scott roared Stiles. Peter… prayed.

Then he felt it. The whole tilt of the earth and the well of power that  wa s the nemeton  beneath his feet  drained dry, seeping out  _somewhere. Somewhere._

Scott and Lydia were both blinking frowning. They both look ed right at him.

Then through him.

Peter sucked in a dry breath. It  had been months since someone ha d forgotten him instantly, his wolf reared up, itching to make itself  _known – _ but Peter restrained himself. The nemeton just emptied itself of all it’s power, Peter has been forgotten all over again, the two must be connected.

This  wa s going to do terrible things to his credit rating.

Scott and Lydia cautiously walked away, whispering to each other about hows and whys. 

Peter lifted his nose and beg an his search.

Stiles was in the woods somewhere.

Stiles.

+

He was thin and brittle sitting in the stark diner light, a white cup of coffee against a white table, a fluorescent light shone in the darkness  lighting up every inch of his tired body . He stared. Stared.  Stared at nothing.

Peter idly remembered he was in a coma for a month, maybe it wasn’t because of the burns.

There  wa s dirt under the boy’s nails, he looked pale, sallow, sunken in. He looked like he’d just walked out of a grave,  climbed out a grave . Like he’d been starving for a year.

He looked beautiful.

He looked like  salvation.

+

He doesn’t speak.

So in reply, Peter also doesn’t speak.

He bundled him up into the car, into his apartment, into his shower, his bed. Stiles stayed silent as Peter held him, silent as he fed him, silent as he dressed him, silent as they stood in the park, Agatha’s park, and soaked up the cold winter sunshine.

Stiles closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. Peter watched him.

+

It  wa s days before Peter saw the amber ( _amber amber, how could he have forgotten -_ ) eyes flicker with something akin to intelligence. Stiles tracked Peter’s hands as he made  a  stir-fry. Tracked his face when it was set in front of him. Seemed to taste his food as he ate. Peter hoped, desperately.

Don’t let it have been too long. Don’t let me have been too late.

+

It was days again before he spoke.

“Peter.”

It  wa s dark, but not pitch black. The blankets  w e re soft and heavy. Peter’s arms  w e re wrapped around Stiles’ waist. His heart beat thunder ed in  Peter’s ears.

“Stiles,” he replied back softly.

“How long…”

“It’s January. A year and six months since you were taken.”

He felt more than heard Stiles’ breathing become erratic. Breaths became shorter, more effort, chest heaving, limbs curl ed in.

“Shh, it’s okay. I came as fast as I could.”

“The others – dad - ”

“Everyone’s alive. Everyone’s safe.”

“Peter - ”

“They are alive. Safe. No one else got taken. Your father is fine.”

The salty taste of tears was in the air, soaked up by the pillow. Peter ran a hand up and down Stiles’ arm, trying to gently calm him.

“Soon, when you’re stronger, you’ll see. Soon. Just concentrate on you for now,” Peter whispered. “They’re safe. They’re fine.”

Eventually Stiles’ breathing evened out, the heartbeat slowed down. Peter sighed.

This was going to be  r ough.

+

Stiles had always been observant, had always been able to extrapolate information from his observations that others may miss.

He spotted things.

They went for coffee. Stiles noticed how Peter kept the receipt in his hand. Noticed how the barista turned  around with  the coffee and frowned, Peter brandish ing  his receipt quickly at her. He noticed how he was jostled by people on the street; how people only swerved to avoid him at the very last moment – sometimes not at all.

So Peter knew when Stiles turned to him on their bench in Agatha’s park that he’s not looking for an answer to his question: he’s looking for a confirmation.

“Do they remember us?”

Peter heaved a deep breath in and looked Stiles in the eye.

“No.”

+

Stiles sat on the front porch of the McCall house. Peter watched from across the street.

Watched as John Stilinski pulled into the driveway, watched as Stiles stood, and watched as John ignored him entirely stepping around him to get into the house.

Watched as Stiles’ heart shattered.

**February**

Stiles hasn’t left the bed for a week.

Peter fed him, pushed him into the bath, curled round him at night.

Tonight, Peter was being called to hunt, so hunt he would.

-

It was rare that the nemeton called him to the nemeton herself. He ripped out the throat of the massive hulking beast before bringing out a handkerchief to clean the blood from his face.

“Peter.”

Peter spun around sharply at his name, but who else could it be.

“Stiles.”

He looked small, like a husk, sunken dull eyes, hands in pockets of a hoodie, breath almost misting in front of him, shoes looking worn through.

“I felt...”

“Called?” Peter asked. “The nemeton has been… helping me, helping me get you.”

“How?” Stiles rasped.

“I made her sacrifices, she gained power, and we used that power to pull you through.”

Stiles blinked, saying nothing in response. Peter turned back to the hulking beast which had already begun decomposing. Peter shrugged, reaching down and breaking apart the animal to speed up it’s decay.

“How many...”

Peter turned back to Stiles and raised an eyebrow.

“How many? How many did I kill to get you back?” Peter continued. Stiles nodded. “That’s the wrong question darling,” Peter said stepping off the nemeton and toward Stiles. “The real question is how many more would I kill to keep you,” he said resting a hand on Stiles’ cheek. He expected Stiles to flinch, rear back, slap his hand away, shout morals at him – just anything – react. Peter frowned.

“I feel… I just feel…” Stiles murmured, unable to finish the sentence. Peter nodded.

“Let me take you home.”

+

Stiles started to go out during the day.

Peter would shadow him. Follow him. Watch him stand and look in the windows of his friends and family. Every day he came home a little more hollow, a little less there. Peter said nothing, had nothing to help with except his hold at night.

Until he shadowed him to the top of a building.

“What are you doing, darling?”

Peter tried not to let his fear rule him, tried to keep level headed as the wind swirled around them. The sight of Stiles standing up on the ledge, dark skinny form boldly contrasting the grey white cloudy overcast sky.

“Trying to feel something.”

Peter stood on the ledge next to Stiles and easily wrapped an arm around him, lifting him off the ledge and putting him back down onto the roof terrace in three seconds flat.

“You know darling, there are so many things I could make you feel,” Peter murmured turning Stiles around to face him. Stiles’ eyes teared up.

“Peter,” he whispered.

“You were on the junior league baseball team,” Peter said suddenly, the memory of the old article floating to the front of his mind. Stiles looked at him startled. He licked his lips.

“You were on the basketball team in highschool,” Stiles replied. Peter nodded.

“I’ll make you feel, right down to your bones. ,” he said carefully cradling Stiles in his arms. “We exist, you and I.”

_We exist._

+

Peter held Stiles’ hand as he led him through the preserve.

“I’ve never been this far in before,” Stiles muttered as he chewed on his hoodie string. (_he chewed, god, he chewed on everything, anything he could put in his mouth and suck_)

“The woods go on for…” Peter sighed. “Until the next county over almost. I’ve not reached the other side.”

“And why am I here,” Stiles muttered, sullen from being dragged out the bed.

“You’re here to indulge in your death wish,” Peter said coming to a halt and letting go of Stiles’ hand.

“I’m what?” Stiles asked turning as Peter stepped back and howled. There was silence for a beat. Then two. Then -

_THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUM -_

Stiles spun around just in time to dodge the creature that stormed through the trees. He jumped back onto his feet.

“Peter!” he shouted, scared, and furious. Peter held his nerve, staying still and silent in the face of the beast.

The creature moved toward Stiles’ shout and thumped in his direction. Stiles started to run, trying desperately not to trip over tree roots, heart beating wilding in his chest. Peter followed silently alongside.

“Goddammit, Peter!” he shouted again.

“Yes, darling?”

Stiles skidded to a stop, tumbling head over heels. “What the actual fuck!”

“Here,” Peter said handing over a baseball bat he had stashed. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Peter, what are you doing?”

“How do you feel?”

“What?”

“How do - ”

The monster thumped in roaring and Stiles jumped out his skin, Stiles rolled out of the way just in time. He swung the bat around in his hand. Peter sidestepped easily behind a tree, watched Stiles turn desperately toward the monster, before he squared his shoulders, tightened his grip, and snarled.

“Oh, fuck you, Peter,” he heard Stiles mutter under his breath. Then he swung for the head.

-

Peter was the one who landed the killing blow, after Stiles had exhausted, battered, and bruised himself. He panted out of breath on the forest floor as the creature stopped moving. Peter moved to sit beside him.

“So,” Peter said bringing out his handkerchief and wiping his hands. “How do you - ”

“Fuck off,” Stiles spat out as a wheeze. Peter laughed. Stiles did too, and relief flooded Peter. Even when the laughter turned into a sob.

“Is this…. Is this what you did? While I…” Stiles trailed off, looking up at the sky.

“Yes. In a way,” Peter said shrugging. Stiles shuffled around until he was facing Peter, then hummed. Peter sighed, continuing. “I had a purpose. I woke from my coma and I knew I had to figure out how to get you back. You became my everything. My existence was dependant upon yours.”

Peter waited as Stiles picked at a wound beginning to scab on his hands, processing. Peter could feel his heart lurching. “And now?”

Peter breathed, knowing nothing less than baring his soul would convince this boy of his devotion. He raised his hand, pressing fingers under Stiles’ chin and tipped his eyes up .

“My existence is still very much dependant upon yours, Stiles,” Peter said softly, running a finger along Stiles’ cheek. “You became my everything, and you still are.”

He could hear Stiles’ heartbeat, erratic and adrenalin fuelled. Stiles stared at him for a few moments before pulling away Peter’s hand.

“Thank you. For… not leaving me behind. And… this,” Stiles said quietly. “I might not thank you tomorrow, but… I think I need, I need something. To feel. Here. Alive.”

Peter hummed. “I used to vandalise public property. Before I started murdering whomever the nemeton told me to.”

Stiles tilted his head. “The nemeton… told you?”

Peter nodded. “She is still a beacon.”

Stiles frowned, thinking. Peter stood then held out a hand to Stiles. “If you don’t move now, you’ll crash here. Then I’d have to carry you.”

Stiles peered up at Peter for a moment. “But you would carry me,” Stiles said, as if suddenly figuring something out.

Peter simply wiggled his fingers in reply.

He already knew exactly what he’d do for Stiles.

And what exactly that meant.

**March**

They moved.

It was something Peter did every few months – the life of a serial killer after all – but this time was different.

He wandered into apartments deeming them worthy then waited.

Stiles would slink along behind, wandering through rooms before shaking his head leaving, the realtor sneering her nose at his dirty converse and chewed up nails.

Then they reached a small studio on the outskirts of town. Peter had no idea why the realtor had brought them and was ready to ream her out when Stiles nodded. Peter raised an eyebrow. Stiles raised his chin.

“We’ll take it.”

The realtor looked between the teenager and Peter before pursing her lips and smiling, bringing out contracts and leases. Stiles walked over to the bed and flopped back down onto it. When the realtor had left, with a fake signature that may or may not last until morning Peter sauntered over to the double and lay next to Stiles.

“Why pick here?” he asked, leaning on his elbow and slipping a hand up Stiles’ shirt to rest on his skin, siphoning off some lingering pain. Stiles stared up at Peter.

“It’s crummy, just like the rest of my life is.” 

“An excellent reason for our toilet to be a foot away from our fridge and our bed to be a murphy.”

Stiles snorted.

+

Some days the stench of misery and heartbreak was so strong that Peter couldn’t bear it.

He had lost himself to madness when he lost everything. Stiles lost himself to grief.

+

The newspaper reported on a mountain lion attack in the preserve. One officer in the hospital. Stiles threw down the newspaper on the diner table.

“I thought you dealt with these things.”

Outings were hard for Stiles, but 3am coffee was like training wheels for real life.

“Not in particular. I only go when she tells me to. Not everything. It’s not my job to protect the territory.”

Stiles frowned. “Why not?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Why is it not the last Hale in Beacon Hill’s job – the only man who can hear the nemeton – to protect this town?”

Peter sat and watched as Stiles’ body shook with the force of emotion that swam through him.

“Darling, just say the word, I’d do it for you.”

Stiles looked up. Still thin, still haunted, still so young.

“You’d do anything for me.”

+

Sometimes when they walked outside, Stiles would stand close to the curb. As close as you can get without falling onto the road. Peter watched him like a hawk. He could see the indecision flash on his face as cars sped by. He’d sway. Peter would wrap an arm around him and lead him away from the edge.

+

Peter read the newspaper on the couch as Stiles drank coffee in the kitchen.

“Stiles?” Peter called. No response. Peter glanced up. Stiles was sitting at the breakfast bar – if the yellowing leftover worktop surrounded by barstools could be deigned to be called such – his back was to Peter as one hand idly twirled his coffee mug around. “Stiles?” he called louder.

No reaction.

Peter felt his breathing stall, his heart stop. Not Stiles. Not Stiles too. He leapt across the room, clawed hand reaching out and snatching Stiles.

The boy spluttered. “What - ”

Peter twisted him around to face him and pushed him up against the breakfast bar. “You were ignoring me,” he snarled slightly. He only realised his fangs had dropped when the words came out slurred. He was breathing so fast, why was he breathing so fast.

“Peter, look at me, look,” Stiles said putting his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “I was wearing my earphones, I just didn’t hear you. I’d never ignore you – never.”

“Earphones,” Peter repeated looking at the bar-top and seeing Stiles’ phone with the earphones on top.

“Let’s breathe together,” Stiles said gently, moving a hand down to Peter’s chest.

“What?”

Stiles licked his lips. “You’re having a panic attack,” he whispered.

“Oh, that’s why - ”

“You can’t breathe, yeah. Now concentrate with me.”

It didn’t take long for the panic attack to subside, Stiles gently pushing him back toward the sofa and pushing him down, burrowing into his side.

“What set it off?”

“I -” Peter tightened his grip around Stiles’ waist. “I thought you’d forgotten me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t think. I can’t be without you Stiles.”

**April**

He  ha s caught Stiles. Staring off into the distance. Accidentally spending hours like that.

He hoped that it healed with time

+

He’s caught Stiles. Holding onto a knife and staring at it’s edge, it’s sharp gleam. Climbing up onto the edge of a bridge. Driving too fast down a dark road.

He hoped that it  too healed with time.

+

They trekked through the mud, Stiles with a glock in a holster and a crowbar in his hand, Peter with the sweet whispers of the nemeton in his ear.

She had been quieter since Stiles arrived. Peter was not surprised,  technically there was no more bargain between them now.

It was tall and black with horns, crouching over and eating something that was wearing Nike trainers, it’s limbs folded over unnaturally so. Stiles took out his gun and held his position as Peter flanked.

They made an effective team.

+

“We should have a code.”

Peter hummed as he stripped the clothes off of Stiles and threw them inside the steel barrel. Far too much blood this time.

“We should have a code.”

Stiles ha d gone numb in the adrenalin crash. Distant. Needy. Quiet. 

Peter grabbed the hose that was hooked up to the water barrel he kept in the trunk of the car and washe d  Stiles’ face.

“A code?” Peter repeated. “What did you have in mind? Let’s kill the fuckers?” Peter asked. Stiles smirked, brittle.

“Something like that.”

Peter ran the water over Stiles’ forearms and hands before stopping the water and handing him a towel and clothes. Stiles dried off and sat on the hood of the car as Peter set fire to the evidence. Peter sat next to him and they watched it burn.

“I don’t want… ” Stiles huffed. “I don’t want anything to hurt them. Ever.”

Peter snorted. “Ever? Good luck, darling. Lydia doesn’t even live in this county.”

Stiles flinched at the reminder that his friends were a year older than him now. A year and six months older. Starting college. Peter wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist, pulling him closer.

At least Stiles was feeling his pain now.

+

Peter woke in the dark, reaching out. Stiles was gone. Wait. Stiles was on the couch.

Third time this week.

Peter roused himself from the bed and tottered over to the couch. He sat down and leant his head back, resting against Stiles’ hip, closing his eyes and breathing. After a little while Stiles shifted in his sleep, waking just slightly.

“Hnn?”

“Go back to sleep,” Peter said softly.

“Wake now,” he half spoke. Peter rotated slowly to face him.

“If this is going to be a problem I…” Peter reached out and ran a hand along Stiles’ arm. “I could get us a two bed.”

Stiles blinked, brain thinking slower than usual. Peter enjoyed being able to see the thoughts flit over his eyes. “Why am I here, Peter?”

Peter ran his thumb along the soft inside of Stiles wrist. “I need you,” Peter said plainly, forcing himself to be brutally honest  against all instincts . “Like a lonely wolf without a pack, like a man written out of existence with only one person who knows his name,” Peter tightened his grip on Stiles’ wrist fractionally,  reactionally . “Like a madman needs to have his obsession.”

“Like a monster needs a pet?” Stiles said bitterly. Peter smiled.

“Oh, Stiles. You’ve got it wrong way round. I’m very much the pet in this situation. Far more like a monster that needs a master.”

The heady sleepy scent was still the most prevalent on Stiles’ skin, the sleepy calm soothing him.

“You ground me, Stiles,” Peter murmured. “I can only think straight when I’m around you. I’m only ever myself when I’m with you.”

“Can I leave?” Stiles asked suddenly. Peter felt his heart leap and closed his eyes.

“Anytime you want.”

Stiles examined Peter’s face, for what Peter wasn’t sure, but eventually Stiles nodded.

“Take me back to bed?”

+

There was something in the woods killing hikers.

Again.

+

Stiles had taken to staring at him. Long searching looks, before frowning and looking away.

They shopped at a walmart two towns away in a sort of easy rhythm, mocking each other’s food choices whilst arguing over the best way to make a sauce. Making Stiles laugh was a revelation for Peter. Stiles’ smile would split his face in two before letting out a loud howl of joy. Peter wanted to make him do it again and again. Conversations flittered around in a way that made no sense to Peter, but he was perfectly content to go along for the ride. It felt almost… domestic. He could get used to this.

“We should set a perimeter.”

Peter loaded up the sacks into the trunk of his car.

“Around what?”

Stiles leaned against the side of the car, chewing on the end of a twizzler.

“Beacon Hills. A sort of, no monsters past this point thing.”

Peter hummed. “We can ask the nemeton.”

Stiles tilted his head. “Can we?”

Peter raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re her guardian. You’d be surprised by how vocal she is.”

“Not recently though, you said.”

Peter nodded and slammed the trunk shut. “She’s been very quiet. Maybe because you’re here now and our… deal is complete.”

“We could…. We could try?”

+

There was something in the woods killing hikers. Stiles and Peter crashed some crime scenes. Once Stiles’ father was there and Stiles  had  moved toward s him before Peter wrapped an arm tight and crushing around his waist. Stiles pulled against him for a moment before realising, then went limp like a rag doll in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

+

Peter woke, rubbing his eyes, the grimy bathroom had a single terrible light on a cord that buzzed when switched on. Peter could hear Stiles’ steady heartbeat over the din.

Could hear the cocking of the gun.

Peter moved faster than he ever had in his life, grabbing Stiles’ wrist and twisting just as the shot fired. The bullet flew into the tiles, shattering the wall.

“Well. There goes the security deposit.”

Stiles said nothing: just stared with dead eyes. Peter prised the gun out of his hand, releasing the magazine, and letting them both drop  on to the  tiled  floor. He sighed, kneeling down in front of Stiles.

“What do you want?”

Stiles blinked, tears rushing to his eyes.

“My dad.”

Peter raised a hand and smoothed it down over Stiles’ hair.

“He’s alive and well. What do you want?”

“I want - ” Stiles sobbed, slipping off the edge of the bathtub and down into Peter’s arms. Peter folded him in, cradling him close.

“I lost myself,” Peter whispered. “I went mad. Still am. I can’t help you heal,” Peter murmured into Stiles’ hair. “I don’t know how to help you.”

Stiles shifted up into Peter lap, knees sliding over Peter’s hips, fingers pulling at the short hair. Stiles stared at Peter’ face, studying, Peter still didn’t know what Stiles was searching for  when he looked at him like that . Peter took the opportunity to stare back. Some of the sunkenness had gone, tear tracks trailed over his cheeks, a greening bruise along the jawline where a log had smacked him. He looked alive.

“Your hair was longer when we first met,” Stiles said.

Peter hummed. “Your hair was shorter.”

Stiles trembled, shivered slightly as he leaned in close, bumping their noses together, mashing his lips against Peter’s. Peter felt his hunger overcome him, pulling Stiles in closer and opening up his lips. Stiles broke off, panting and licking his lips.

“Stiles - ” Peter started.

Stiles fumed. “If you’re about to fucking tell me that I should wait until I’m thinking straight then - ”

“I was going to suggest we get out of this toilet. Quite literally, if I was an inch more to my right,” Peter snarked back.

Stiles stared at Peter, face conflicted and tense. Peter shrugged.

“You know it yourself. I’m not a good man, Stiles. I’m not going to deny myself something I want,” he said lifting a hand to Stiles’ face, trailing a thumb along Stiles’ bottom lip. “Not when I want it so very much.”

Stiles launched himself at Peter with such ferocity Peter tipped and they tumbled backwards. Peter smacked his head off the wall and Stiles barely caught himself from being brained on the sink above.

“Bedroom?” Stiles asked.

“You mean three feet to the left? Yes,” Peter drawled, easily scooping Stiles up and depositing him on the lumpy murphy bed in one move. “Now, where were we?”

**May**

Stiles wasn’t afraid to take now that he knows he can. Stalking around the woods at night had a new darker edge, often ending with a teenager pressed into the dirt, or a werewolf with a steering wheel against his back, adrenaline fuelled fumbling in the dark.

It wasn’t pretty.

Peter knew Stiles was self destructive, that his sense of self had been destroyed., that Peter could very well be only the first in a long litany of bad decisions; but when Stiles dug his fingernails into his skin, when he gave as much as he took – having no clue what he was doing, not caring who he was doing it with – Peter couldn’t deny himself, or Stiles.

+

“You know you can be louder than that, sweetheart,” Peter said sliding his lips off Stiles’ dick. Stiles huffed, lips red from biting, and glanced at the door.

“I assure you no one is coming, no matter how vocal you are,” Peter smirked. Stiles glared down at him, managing to look indignant even with his pants down.

“Just hurry up.”

“Bossy,” Peter teased, giving his ass a slap, and then getting back to the matter at hand.

For all of Peter’s bravado, he genuinely didn’t know if the people outside the changing room cubical would remember their performance – but it was important to experiment and push those boundaries.

And Stiles loved the thrill.

+

The next place Peter rented was infinitely better than the last. Stiles just rolled his eyes and shrugged. “I picked the last place.”

+

Stiles would close his eyes and sit on the nemeton every so often. He would complain, say he felt stupid, say it was cold, wet, damp, he was hungry. Peter would arch a brow and eventually Stiles would quiet. Hours later, he would be done – with what Peter wasn’t certain Stiles even knew, but sometimes Stiles would open his eyes and know something new.

Something like, a poltergeist.

-

Stiles threw the salt and ducked just as a knife embedded itself into a wall behind him. Peter fell down seven feet off the ceiling and wheezed, inhaling the dust and dirt from the old floorboards. Stiles dashed to his side, hands turning him over.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Peter blinked up at Stiles taking in the wide eyes and dilated pupils. “Totally okay. Did you get it?” Peter asked glancing over to the pile of blackened salt and wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah… holy fuck I think I did,” Stiles crowed, grin splitting over his face and a small giggle escaping him. Peter lifted a hand and ran it through Stiles’ hair.

“You were incredible.”

Stiles smirked. “I try. Especially when my backup decides to get stuck to a ceiling. Just can’t get the help these days.”

“Oh is that what I am? The help?” Peter asked.

“Yup,” Stiles said leaning in and stealing a kiss. “I’m one of those terribly clichéd employers who sleeps with the maid.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Well if you would just do the dishes every once in a while - ”

Stiles swooped in for another kiss, and another, then suddenly they’re both reaching for clothes. “When it flung you up into the ceiling oh my god I freaked I thought you were a goner seriously dude I -”

“Breathe,” Peter murmured as he kissed down Stiles neck (_long, pale, glorious neck -_) interrupting the tirade of words flowing from Stiles’ mouth.

“Then it came at me with knives! Knives! Did you see - ”

“I saw.”

“Then blam in it’s stupid see through face I got it,” Stiles said gleefully sliding over Peter’s lap.

“Mmmhmm, and how may I thank such a conquering hero.”

“You could fuck me.”

Peter looked around the decrepit ruins of the abandoned house.

“Or like, hand job? Then fuck me at home.”

Peter smirked. “Better.”

+

It felt like every single moment was consumed by Stiles. He thought constantly of him, where he was, what he was doing, what he liked, what would he like, how was he coping, was he eating enough, the thoughts didn’t overwhelm him per se – but it was a steady backdrop to his life, his decisions, his routines.

He knew his obsession wasn’t a two way street.

+

Dinner was quiet that night, Stiles was wrestling with something, prodding his pasta around the plate.

“Do you think…”

Peter raised his eyebrow. “I happen to think thinking is what I do best.”

Stiles gave a half hearted smile. “Do you think we could have been like this before?”

“What do you mean?”

Stiles shrugged. “Before, when people knew us, before you spent a year trying to get me back, before we became this monster slaying duo that also has sex - when I was just a high schooler in Scott McCall’s pack,” Stiles’ voice remained steady over Scott’s name. An improvement. “Do you think the people we were could be what we are now?”

Peter frowned. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking.”

He knew exactly what he was asking.

He was asking if it was okay to sleep with his first girlfriend’s dad. If it was okay to stay with the man who tried to kill his best friend. If it was okay to live with an unremorseful, manipulative, murderer.

+

Stiles left.

It took everything in him not to hunt him down.

**June**

He met Stiles again around the back of the bowling alley. A brown paper bag stuck out his back pocket and a baseball bat was slung over his shoulder.

“You here for the ghoul?” he asked, hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in weeks. Peter knew the feeling.

“Yes,” Peter rasped back. Stiles nodded and they waited. The sun set and a rasping wailing noise echoed up from the drains, a figure dragged itself upright. Stiles swung, easily, aiming for the head. It snapped sideways but didn’t go down. Peter went for the leg and Stiles rooted around in his back pocket. Stiles threw something over the ghoul and it disintegrated.

“We have to bury it in a sanctified church ground now.”

“There’s a chapel in Beacon Heights,” Peter replied. “You got a container?”

They walked in silence the fifty minutes it took to get to the church yard, stole shovels in silence, dug the hole in silence, buried it in silence, walked away in silence.

“Can I -” Stiles coughed. “Can I come home with you?”

Peter’s heart soared. “If you’d like.”

“I would like,” he sighed. “Turns out being a ghost isn’t as much fun without you.”

Stiles’ voice wavered at the end, close to tears. It would probably be inconsiderate to start smiling. Peter reached out and grabbed Stiles’ hand instead.

“We exist, you and I,” he said gently. “Your mother’s name was Claudia.”

Stiles sobbed. “Your sister’s name was Talia.”

+

People were starting to acknowledge them now. It put a small damper on the public sex, but made the coffee shop far more manageable. Stiles got some of his snark back when the barista had a conversation with him over some sort of superhero nonsense.

“How much do people remember you?” Stiles asked pushing around a grilled cheese with far too much salad added on the side.

“I could never have a follow up conversation, not really,” Peter answered. “Although people who are more inclined to forget remember you more.”

Stiles frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked guzzling down a hot chocolate that had more whipped cream than liquid inside. Peter glanced out the coffee shop window, turning his face into the sunshine to gather his thoughts.

“There was a woman, named Agatha…”

+

“I don’t know if I can stay in this place.”

Stiles didn’t look up from his research on blood suckers. “You picked it dude. It came with it’s own walk in pantry.”

“You’re the pinnacle of intelligence,” Peter replied. “I meant Beacon County.”

Stiles went still, eyes still glued to the book in front of him. “Why say that?”

“Everywhere I go, I think I smell them. It’s making my wolf crazy to know they’re right _there_ -”

Stiles was in his lap before he could finish the sentence, folded around him, engulfing.

“I was thinking,” Peter said. “Canaan.”

Stiles eyes went glassy. Then he blinked.

“I remember.”

Peter nodded. “I think we should go investigate. To see. To know. Maybe… maybe we could even stop off on the way. Make a holiday of it. See if distance changes anything for us?” Peter nearly pleaded.

Stiles’ hands gripped the back of Peter’s neck. “I just don’t know if I can leave yet. My dad - ”

Peter nodded in understanding. Peter had never spoken to Malia. Stiles had never spoken to his father. Now they were able to hold conversations with strangers Peter knew Stiles’ mind churned over the thought of talking to his father.

“How long are we going to live in a place where our history is literally erased in front of our eyes? How long are we going to rub salt in the wound?”

Stiles flinched back. “Don’t be such a dick.”

“I thought you liked my dick?” Peter asked.

“What are you? Twelve?” Stiles replied. “Get back to work, I wanna kill this thing.”

“Sir yes sir,” Peter replied smacking Stiles ass as he dismounted from Peter’s lap. Peter smirked at Stiles’ yelp and responding glare before he picked up his laptop and started to google. First hit. Striga.

+

When the text came through from Stiles to be picked up from the gas station Peter felt like he could finally breathe. Peter vowed to never let them split up again, even if rationally he knew that the Sheriff would never hurt a young boy who had just saved his life.

He pulled up to the gas station, saw Stiles open and close the car door so calm and controlled, he looked spun tight and ready to snap. He was out of the car before his brain could think up solutions to ambushes, double crosses, or Argent interference.

The second Peter touched him he fell down, all strength gone as the emotional torrent broke free.

“He doesn’t know me, _he doesn’t know me,_” Stiles sobbed. Peter shushed him and he blabbered incoherent pain into his shoulder, ran his hand over his hair and pressed him in closer.

“He’s going to drive away. Then he’s going to forget me,” Stiles said, breaths finally slowing down, sobs slowly abating. “And I can’t do a damn thing about it.” Stiles looked up at Peter. “I can’t… I can’t, Peter. I can’t do this.”

Peter nodded, gently pulling Stiles up to his feet and pulling him into his side. He watched as the Sheriff started his engine and pulled away, felt Stiles gasp in disbelief as he shut his eyes wishing – just wishing.

The Sheriff drove away.

**August**

The blood of the banshee was hot as it splattered across Peter’s face. Stiles slumped, exhaustion hitting him, he leaned heavily on his now bloodied bat.

“Well, good to know the nemeton’s got our back, even out here,” Stiles said.

Peter raised an eyebrow at Stiles who smiled and wheezed in response. A floorboard creaked. Peter turned, claws out. A small boy.

“Caleb,” Stiles frowned. “How are you still here? You’re not… you’re not supposed to be real.”

Caleb eyes went wide and watery as he looked them both up and down.

“Neither are you.”

He disappeared.

Stiles turned, flailing at Peter. “What the fuck was that?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t know, sweetheart,” Peter replied. “But maybe we should keep our eyes peeled for children who don’t quite exist.”

“You think there’s more?” Stiles asked.

_Allison_ Peter’s mind supplied quietly as he looked around the empty barren ghost town of Canaan. He turned to face Stiles grimly.

“I think there’s more.”


End file.
